Male

Washington, D.C.

I dream a dream in which in which I found myself sitting at one end of a small boat in the middle of a mountain lake. Surrounding the lake on every side, with no buffer of land in between, are the walls of the mountain. A somewhat portly old man wearing a white skullcap and a long white gown, stands peacefully at the other end of the boat. “David” he begins, gazing down at me with a gentle, fatherly smile, “By choosing to become an artist you are running away from your highest potential.” “But what could be more beautiful than the singing of a bird ?” I insist. “Love is more beautiful” says the figure in white. “But I love, beauty...”

Though we continue with this debate for some time, in my heart of hearts I sense the wisdom in his words, and, while reluctant at the thought of neglecting my daily practice, when the old man asks me to accompany him on a special journey, I accept.